Cassidy Kincaid Mysteries Box Set

by Amy Waeschle

  Cassidy paused to imagine the patrons of the club racing for the door, completely panicked that an intruder had a gun and was moments away from shooting. Her sore stomach clenched once more, feeling twisted and tight. “So, you just let them drag you outside?”

  “I may have said a few things that encouraged them,” Dutch admitted. “I figured you were up those stairs, but the goon with a diamond earring and his friend weren’t very welcoming.” He looked at her, his left eye halfway swollen shut now.

  “Just for coming after me?” Cassidy asked, shuffling her tired feet. She longed to sit down but there was nowhere except the sidewalk which was gritty and cracked. “Why not just escort you outside and be done with you?” she asked.

  Dutch’s eyes flicked away. “Well, there’s a bit of history there,” he said.

  Cassidy narrowed her eyes as the realization came to her. “Don’t tell me, you used to be in their club.”

  “Yeah,” he said, licking the corner of his lip, then wiping the blood with the back of his hand. “It was a long time ago, though,” he added, his voice flat, resigned. “But hatred doesn’t die easily.”

  Cassidy zoomed her focus outward to her plan, or lack of one. A car zoomed by, its exhaust grinding loudly.

  “I have to go back in there,” she said.

  “No way,” Dutch said, then coughed, his right shoulder hitching up in pain. “Goddamn, I forgot how much this fuckin’ hurts,” he groaned. Then he looked at her. “They let you walk out of here the first time. You won’t be so lucky again.”

  A shiver ran down her throat and pooled cold and hard in her diaphragm. “Izzy might be here.”

  Dutch shook his head, grimacing. “So? I think it’s pretty clear that they’re willing to do whatever it takes to keep you from finding her.” Slowly, he pushed to upright, his face tight with pain. “Plus, how are you going to get in?” he wheezed. “They’ll recognize you. They may even be looking out for you, knowing that you might come back.”

  “I know,” she said, slipping her backpack from her shoulders. She dug out her spare t-shirt, a plain dark blue one and pulled it on.

  “Are you always this stubborn?” he groaned, watching her scornfully.

  Cassidy ignored this, pulling back her unruly curls and used a hair elastic from her wrist to create a messy bun at the top of her head. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it would have to do.

  He tried to take a deep breath but his face hitched tight with pain. “I’m going with you then.”

  “Ha! You can’t even stand up straight,” Cassidy replied. “And if they’re looking for me, they’ll sure as hell be looking for you.”

  “So what?” Dutch grunted as he tried to straighten. “Safety in numbers,” he added before succumbing to a fit of coughing that doubled him over.

  He groaned, and this time, it took him longer to straighten.

  “Look, let me go inside. See if I can find her. There’s also a waitress I want to talk to.” She explained the exchange from their visit before, watching Dutch’s face transform to an even paler shade of white.

  “Don’t try to take on Saxon. If you see Izzy…” he paused for a moment, panting, “…come back and we’ll figure out how to get her out.” Another clotty-sounding coughing fit ended with a wad of thick-looking spit smacking the ground. In the pale streetlight’s glow, Cassidy noticed its pinkish hue.

  “Okay,” Cassidy said. His breaths seemed faster, shallow. “You sure I shouldn’t call 911 first? You don’t look so good.”

  “Go,” he wheezed, his good eye boring into her. “But hurry.”

  Twenty-Seven

  The underage street vendor with his table of fake goods was still there. Cassidy bought a pair of ridiculous sunglasses—white, round frames too big for her face—for ten dollars. She tugged the hem of her t-shirts to expose her midriff, tying a knot in both layers under her right breast. Then, she slipped into the club’s recessed entrance.

  Inside, the now-familiar sounds and smells hit her senses: though now there was an added scent of B.O. layered with something she couldn’t place—more of a feeling, which she identified as desperation. The floor was completely packed with guests, most of them standing. Though the stage stood empty, dance music flooded the air while waitresses circled and entertainers perched on chairs or lingered at the edge of the booths set along the back wall. Cassidy forced her eyes to see through the dark glasses, hoping to spot the waitress from the bar. She racked her brain to remember the details of the woman’s face: faint freckles beneath her brown eyes, dark hair slicked back into a bouncy ponytail, her petite figure covered only by a pair of tight black shorts and a striped tank top that fit loosely over a lacy, baby-blue bra.

  Cassidy wove through the crowd along the wall opposite the bar, the music and bright lights blaring into her skull, scanning each area methodically while also keeping an eye out for the bartender and the two bouncers. But two women held court behind the bar now, and the bouncers were nowhere in sight. She reached the corner where the main room transitioned to the hallway leading to the restrooms, the V.I.P rooms, and the stairs to Saxon’s office.

  Cassidy paused to search the room once more, scanning left to right. But saw no sign of the waitress. With a jolt, she recognized the bartender from earlier hurrying down the hall toward her, his eyes fixed on the stage. Cassidy ducked her head and turned away slightly.

  Had he seen her? She waited, her heart firing hot pulses into her bloodstream.

  But the bartender turned toward the bar, joining the two women behind it. Cassidy hurried into the hallway. Just then a door in the wall opened and a woman dressed in white strappy heels and white lingerie exited and headed straight for the stage, swinging her hips, a pout on her generous lips. In awe, Cassidy pressed her back into the wall and watched her pass. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the hidden door swinging shut and stepped forward to grab it. After one more look up and down the hallway to make sure no one had seen her, she slipped through.

  She entered a narrow hallway—black walls and black floor—that led around a corner to an open space with a table and chairs covered with various bottles and what looked like the remains of someone’s takeout dinner. Behind it, a giant mirror lit by bright lights along the top gave the room a garish feel. Cassidy saw her reflection and flinched. Individual rooms split off from this central space, each with a silver star on the door.

  “What the hell you doin’ back here?” a female voice called from behind her.

  Cassidy spun to see a blonde woman in tight shorts and a red top paused in one of the dressing room doorways.

  “Uh, I’m looking for someone,” Cassidy said.

  The woman frowned. “Tony?” she called out, looking behind Cassidy, as if Tony would appear. She turned back and eyed Cassidy. “Tony’s supposed to guard this door,” she said, jerking her head back to the entrance Cassidy had come through.

  Cassidy sensed she was about to get thrown out. “She’s a waitress,” she said in a rush. “Long, shiny brown ponytail? Freckles?”

  “Huh,” the woman grunted, still frozen in her doorway. Behind her, Cassidy noticed a closet-like space with a lighted mirror and hangars of clothing.

  “I think she might know something about my friend. She’s missing.”

  The woman’s face changed. “I don’t know any waitress that looks like that,” she said.

  Another woman came out of her room, dressed in street clothes. “Who’s that?” she asked, frowning at Cassidy.

  “Unexpected guest,” the blonde woman snorted.

  “Where’s Tony?” the second woman asked.

  The blonde shrugged.

  “Well, I’m out,” the second woman said, and embraced the blonde woman before moving to the door.

  “Bye, baby,” she said to the second woman, “ride safe.”

  “I will,” the second woman said, waving as she slipped to a door in the back of the room. When it opened, Cassidy saw a white hallway lit up by bright lights.
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br />   “Time you made your way out, too,” the blonde said. “Before Tony gets back.”

  “My friend got a ride from Saxon last night. She may have ended up here.” Cassidy flashed the picture of Izzy on her phone. “Please, I think she may be in trouble.”

  The woman shook her head. “She ain’t here,” she said. “Now scoot.” She made a shooing motion with her hands.

  Cassidy didn’t know if Tony was one of the bouncers who had escorted her upstairs but didn’t want to risk it. She slipped back through the hidden door into the dark and crowded hallway, the music from the stage thumping into her temple. She slunk deeper into the hallway, when one of the V.I.P. room doors opened, and the waitress slipped out. Frozen in place, Cassidy watched her check both directions, then brushed back an invisible hair on her head and pivoted for the bathroom. Like a magnet, Cassidy moved in the same direction, reaching the door just after the waitress. The woman looked back, a casual, self-absorbed expression in her eyes. But this changed when she recognized Cassidy’s face.

  The woman turned away and headed for a stall, but Cassidy stepped in front of her.

  The woman’s face pinched in anger. “Get outta my way, I gotta pee for chrissakes.”

  “You know something about Izzy, don’t you?” Cassidy asked.

  “What the hell is this?” the waitress said, trying to dodge around Cassidy, but she dodged with her.

  “Earlier, when I was here you reacted when I asked the bartender about Saxon. Like you wanted to tell me something.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the waitress said, but there was a tremor in her voice.

  “Saxon told me he dropped Izzy off at an apartment. But I saw her getting driven off in the direction of the club. Is she here? Who is she supposed to meet tonight?”

  The waitress shook her head. “I don’t know, now move,” she said.

  “Saxon forces girls to have sex with customers, doesn’t he?”

  The waitress’s eyes darted away.

  “I think my friend Izzy is somehow caught up in it. That she’s being forced to work for him.”

  “You’re crazy,” she said, bracing her hands on her hips.

  “You aren’t supposed to go into the V.I.P. rooms, are you?” Cassidy said as a guilty look contorted the woman’s face.

  Cassidy realized she finally had an angle. “Want me to talk to Tony about it?”

  The waitress’s mouth pulled into a tight line.

  “I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Cassidy said, trying to lose the hard edge from her voice. “But I need to find Izzy. Is she here?” Cassidy tried again.

  The waitress shook her head. “Look, I’d like to help your girl, but there’s a lot of us who need this gig.”

  “Nobody has to know you told me anything,” Cassidy said, though such a promise felt hollow.

  The woman seemed to think about this, drawing in a long breath that puffed out her full chest.

  “I think earlier tonight, you reacted because you wanted to help. You knew something was wrong.”

  The waitress seemed to make up her mind. “I don’t have proof, just bits and pieces,” she said, looking down at her hands.

  “I don’t need proof. Please, I just need to find my friend before it’s too late.

  The waitress, eyes pinched in apprehension, and then she sighed, dropping her head. “I overheard one of my regulars talk about it with a friend of his one night.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “A private club. For kinky stuff.”

  “Is it part of the strip clubs?” Cassidy asked, wondering if maybe the upstairs rooms had a private membership option.

  The waitress shook her head. A look of anguish passed over her petite features. “I’m not supposed to know about it. If Saxon found out . . . ”

  “I have to find my friend,” Cassidy said, her voice catching, “before he hurts her.” Cassidy shuddered, imagining what Izzy might be experiencing this very moment.

  “All right,” the waitress said, pressing her eyes shut for an instant, as if gathering courage. “Tony sometimes takes me home,” she said, her eyes focused on her hands again. “I live south of Portola. But one time, Tony got a call, some kind of emergency but I don’t know what it was. He turned off in Bayview and he made me wait outside this big building. He was only gone for five minutes but I swear I heard something from inside the windows.”

  Cassidy’s skin prickled. “Do you remember where this place is?”

  She shook her head. “But we passed a coffee roaster,” the waitress said. “I used to live near one, so I know the smell.”

  “Do you remember what the building looked like?” Cassidy asked, holding her breath. This was it.

  She shrugged. “It was dark. It was just a gray metal building with one of those big doors. But it had these windows on the second story. A row of them close together. But that’s it. That’s all I remember.”

  The woman disappeared into the stall. Cassidy exited the restroom and bee-lined for the door. Halfway down the hallway, a burly man in a tight black t-shirt approached—Cassidy knew in an instant that he had to be Tony. Her heart tapping into her throat, she forced herself not to run past him, each step feeling agonizingly slow, as if she’d slipped into a different dimension. Fear crowded all the way up to her throat so that the walls felt off-kilter by the time she passed. She resisted the urge to look back while her ears waited for him to call out.

  Adrenaline fizzled in her veins as she wove back through the crowd, thankful that the show kept everyone focused. Hurrying past the black curtain and ignoring the woman’s “see you next time,” she dropped the sunglasses on the kid’s table. “No refunds,” he said but she was already halfway to the corner, unknotting her t-shirt and pulling the elastic out of her hair.

  Even in the diffuse light from the overhead lamps, she could see that Dutch’s condition had deteriorated.

  “Okay, change in plans,” she said. “You need a hospital. I’m calling 911.”

  Dutch shook his head. “They’ll just think I’m . . . some wino,” he wheezed, his eyes taking in the dark alley and shadowy street.

  “Did you see her?” he asked, his voice weak.

  “No, but I think I know where she is,” she replied, thinking fast. She had to get Dutch to a hospital, but she needed to get to Izzy.

  Don’t let her end up broken, like me, she begged.

  “Can you drive?” she asked.

  Dutch tried to push himself to standing but his face cracked with agony.

  “Give me the keys,” she said. “I’ll drive you myself.”

  “Ha!” he guffawed, then winced. “You ride?” he asked.

  “No,” Cassidy replied, remembering the two times she’d ridden Quinn’s street bike—the same one that Pete had crashed. After bringing it home, he’d insisted she learn the basics, that it was fun, and it had been, in a thrilling but dangerous sort of way. But she’d only driven it around the block, not with a wounded, full-grown man on the back. “But I’m sure I can figure it out.”

  “A little . . . thing like you is . . . no match for my bike.”

  Cassidy knew this was most certainly true but ignored it and pulled out her phone. “I’ll stay with you until they come,” she said, hitting 9-1-1. “I’ll explain what happened,” she added.

  Dutch’s wheezing sounded worse. “No,” he said. “Go.”

  Cassidy shook her head. “I’m not leaving you.” Dutch tried to wave her off, but this only caused more coughing.

  She dialed 911. The dispatcher asked her a series of questions, her tone flat and businesslike.

  “Please hurry!” Cassidy said, giving the woman the cross street. “I think his lung is collapsing.”

  “Do you need police assistance?” the dispatcher asked.

  “No,” Cassidy said. “The fight’s over.”

  “A unit is on the way,” the woman replied.

  “Thank you,” Cassidy breathed.

  After h
anging up, she began to pace, meanwhile eyeing Dutch and his heavy breathing. She knew he was in pain but had nothing to offer him.

  “Which side hurts worse?” she asked.

  “Both,” he grunted.

  “Does it help if you lay on one side?” she asked, remembering Pete doing this to sleep after the avalanche. It had seemed counter-intuitive to her, but laying on the same side as the break seemed to help. But Dutch most certainly had other injuries—maybe internal bleeding, she wasn’t sure.

  “Better . . . if I sit up,” he managed.

  “Okay,” she said, walking to the edge of the corner, hoping to see the approaching lights of an ambulance. How long had it been since she’d called? Wasn’t the average response time supposed to be under seven minutes?

  Grimacing, Dutch leaned to one side and slid his hand into his front pocket, removing a set of keys. “Take the gun,” he said.

  Cassidy felt the air whoosh out of her lungs. The keys shone bright in his meaty palm and his gaze, though pained, shone with determination.

  Slowly, Cassidy reached out her hand. The keys felt heavy but she closed her fist around them, meeting his gaze with her own.

  Then, she heard the sirens.

  Twenty-Eight

  The ambulance doors thumped shut, and Cassidy watched the medic trot to the front and climb into the rig. She watched the vehicle accelerate, its spinning red lights washing over the buildings and darkened streets. Through the back window of the ambulance, the bright light illuminated the second medic hovering over Dutch. She breathed a sigh of relief to know that he would now be taken care of. But now that he was gone, the reality of her plight returned.

  Cassidy was surprised to find a small crowd of onlookers gathered at the corner below her. Quickly, she turned away, linking shadows to the side street where Dutch had parked his bike.

  She typed in “coffee roaster bayview” into the search bar. When the results popped up, she studied the route, memorizing the cross streets that would get her there.